


Fit for a Holmes

by Mottlemoth



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Established Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade, Greg Lestrade & John Watson Friendship, M/M, PWP, Sex Toys, Soft sex, Tenga Eggs, background Johnlock, birthday gifts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-15
Updated: 2018-07-15
Packaged: 2019-06-10 18:06:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,319
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15297072
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mottlemoth/pseuds/Mottlemoth
Summary: With Mycroft's birthday coming up, Greg turns to fellow Holmes whisperer John Watson for advice. John suggests some new accessories for the bedroom; Greg thinks it's worth a try.





	Fit for a Holmes

**Author's Note:**

> If you're unfamiliar with Tenga eggs, [here's the website](https://www.tenga.co.uk/collections/egg).

It's easy to drink with John Watson. He gets very contemplative and mellow. It feels like the two of them are alone in their own little bubble of the pub, dimly watching a raucous darts game as they work through their second pint. In his twenties, Greg might have been over to join the darts - but he's done his time with drunken chaos. Older now, and wiser, he'd rather sit and ruminate.

And it's good to ruminate with John.

He's oddly restful when he drinks - just the ticket for a Friday night.

As they're nearing the bottom of their glasses, contemplating whether to begin a third, or whether it might be time to wander home to their respective Holmeses, a thought occurs to Greg.

"Hey," he says. John looks up from his pint. "Help me out. I need ideas."

"Mm?" John smiles, ready and willing. "What about?"

Greg gives him an apologetic look. "Mycroft's birthday's coming up soon. What the hell do I get him?"

John blinks, surprised. Greg decides some explanation is needed.

"I've never really - got it _right,"_  he says. " I've never got it _wrong,_ just... I'd like to manage it this year. And I've tried everything."

Greg drinks, dipping his nose into the glass. His voice echoes slightly.

"Got him a set of whiskey tumblers engraved last year. Don't think if I've ever seen him use them. Tried cufflinks, once... might as well have gotten him some from a bubblegum machine. I don't have a clue with this stuff."

John thinks about it, visibly rolling the question around his mouth. "Nice meal out?"

"Nnhh... maybe. We eat out quite a lot, though. Feel like it should be special."

John thinks for a while longer. "Weekend away?"

"Ah... arranging time off work is..."

"Tricky... yeah." John takes a drink. "Make him something?" he suggests, wincing.

Greg's face twists into a smile. "You mean like a mixed tape?"

"Do they even sell tapes anymore?"

"Christ. Who knows? Maybe I could make him a picture of his face, glued together out of macaroni..."

"Ha. Maybe not."

"No worse than the other ideas I've had..." Drinking, Greg shakes his head. "It's not like with other people," he says with a sigh. "Can't just buy him something nice. Whatever it is, it's got to be fit for a Holmes. That's a short bloody list."

John's eyes flash with a thought.

"Okay," he says with a smile, pulls his phone out of his pocket, opens up the browser and starts to type. "Here we go. How long've you two...?"

Greg hesitates. "Why?"

"I mean... you're comfy together, aren't you?"

Greg shifts on his barstool. _Very comfy._ "Sure," he says - then again, "Why?"

John finds what he's looking for. He stops scrolling, and turns the phone around.

Greg blinks at the startling selection of products he's now seeing. "What - "

"They do discreet packaging," John says from the other side of the phone. "Comes in an unmarked brown box. And there's a men's section - gay section - ideas for beginners. Everything you need. Just order a boxful and take the weekend off."

He hands Greg the phone.

Greg takes it almost reverently. He gazes down in wonder, and mild concern, at the array of things now laid out before him. As he scrolls down the page with his thumb, amazed, one item in particular makes his eyes widen.

"What is _that?_ Jesus - where does - "

John leans over his shoulder to see. "Prostate massager," he says, and takes a drink.

 _Shine a light._ "Yeah, but what's the - _other_ bit for?"

"Your perineum. You know? Behind your testicles. It does both at once." John drinks again, his expression mild. "The handle's to keep hold of it so it doesn't get lost."

Greg's eyebrows reach his hairline. He forget sometimes that John's a doctor. "Bloody hell."

"Looks like that one's silicone, so you'll need water-based lube."

"R-Right."

"If you're not used to this stuff, start with something easy. There, click _'Beginners'_ \- scroll down and it should say _'For Men'_ \- they've got videos explaining how to use them all. Maybe get a plug, something like a cock ring, few different lubes... you'll be fine."

A suspicion arises. Greg glances across at John, one eyebrow raised, and watches John finish the last mouthful of his pint.

"Regular customer at this site, are you?" he enquires.

John huffs, masking his smile. "What d'you think Sherlock Holmes gets for Christmas?" he says.

 

*

 

On the morning of his forty-fifth birthday, Mycroft wakes up to warm arms wrapping around him from behind.

Happiness bubbles quietly through his veins.

As Greg spoons against his back, he stirs and nuzzles into the pillow. Greg leans across to his cheek, kisses him and murmurs,

"Happy birthday, gorgeous."

It's impossible not to smile. "Good morning..."

"Did you sleep well?"

"Mm. Very well, thank you." Long weekends with Greg always yield better sleep. It's a relief to know his lover won't be taken from his arms any time soon. They have Saturday yet, and Sunday too - and if Mycroft knows Greg at all like he does, he's going to be treated rather wonderfully for all of it. "How did you sleep?"

"Perfectly." Greg smiles against his cheek, kissing him again, strong arms wrapping tight and his body warm and male. He smells divine. Traces of last night's Italian restaurant cling to his soft grey hair, underlaid with the fading sweetness of his cologne. "Birthday breakfast first? Birthday shower?"

Mycroft's stomach squirms. The one day of the year he'll indulge himself freely - and Greg is very good at helping. "Mmhm... does the birthday shower come with company?"

He feels Greg grin against his cheek. "It does."

Mycroft stirs - ostensibly stretching, while ensuring his arse rubs against Greg's crotch. "Perhaps a shower first, then."

Greg presses against him in return; his fingers gather in Mycroft's pyjama top. As his mouth strokes along Mycroft's jaw, a skitter of pleasure runs in its wake. Mycroft's eyelids flutter.

"I'll go get it started, darlin'." Greg's voice is a warm rumble against his neck, fond and familiar. "You lie here and be cosy... won't be long."

Mycroft bites into his lip. "Thank you, Greg..."

One last kiss, and Greg slips from the bed, scruffing his magnificent grey hair. Mycroft watches him pad away into the bathroom, rubbing at the slope of his bare shoulder with a hand.

Mycroft can't help but wonder if there'll be a gift of some kind today.

He's told Greg for three years now that it isn't necessary - all he could want is his lover to himself for a while - but Greg always seems to feel like he needs a token of the day. Mycroft just hopes he hasn't finally surrendered to what he feels like Mycroft _would_ want, and bankrupted himself in the name of some extravagant gesture.

Reaching for his phone on the bedside, Mycroft makes sure it's still set to Do Not Disturb. As he does, he finds birthday regards from John Watson - oddly sweet of him. He texts a brief reply, half-smiling, then locks the phone and pushes it away.

The shower is ready. Greg comes to escort him in person. He leans over Mycroft, grinning, and their first kiss of the day is sublime - sprawled on his back amongst the soft disarray of the covers, feeling Greg's stubble rasp gently across his jaw as tender hands roam beneath his pyjama top. He arches willingly for Greg's touch; he shivers as his lover begins to undo buttons.

"You're gorgeous... you know that?" Greg murmurs to him between kisses, parting the fabric, stroking his chest. Mycroft's bared skin tingles eagerly beneath his touch. It's all he can do not to moan. "Let's get you clean, beautiful. C'mon."

In the shower, kissing and touching continues - warm water, the soft stroke of suds over skin, Greg's tongue coiling slowly through his mouth. Mycroft attempts to coax his lover's hands where they're most wanted, but Greg seems to be slyly evading his efforts. A few lazy strokes each time, easy from root to tip, and his fingers slip away again through the suds. _Slow, then. Taking our time._ Mycroft contents himself with relaxing into Greg's hands, letting his lover wash him, emitting soft moans when favourite places are stroked. His erection goes casually ignored as they touch, even though he can feel Greg's heavy cock sliding across his thigh. When Mycroft reaches down to stroke it, playing his wet fingers along the hot skin, Greg shivers - but permits no more than a few seconds of pleasure. He catches Mycroft's hands, moves them round to his back and comes close to press him against the wall and grind their full bodies slowly, suds and water, skin slipping, Mycroft's pulse quickening. He winds his fingers through Greg's hair and lets his lover stimulate him this way, teasing each other with the motions and the rhythm of sex until getting clean is a far lesser priority.

Greg switches off the water, reaches for a towel from the heated rail, and wraps Mycroft up in it with love. He rubs Mycroft to dry his skin. As he reaches Mycroft's stomach, stroking in slow and gentle sweeps, Mycroft shivers and tries to catch his hand once more - pushing it down just a little, shivering hopefully, cupping it over his groin through the towel.

Again, Greg gives him only the lightest of relief - a few gentle strokes, rubbing him slowly with the towel, before his fingers vanish once more.

"Greg..." Mycroft flushes, swallowing. "Please..."

Greg unwraps him from the towel. He leans close and presses their lips together, kissing him. "Bed, darlin'?"

Mycroft's cock aches in response. "Mmh. Bed."

The sheets are still a softly crumpled mess. Greg lowers him into them, their hair still damp, their mouths restless and gentle, and at last the play of his lover's fingers along his cock makes Mycroft moan. He shivers with it, breathing, enjoying the feather-soft strokes as they wind from root to tip over and over - little paths, teasing.

Then the fingers are gone yet again, and Mycroft almost bites through his lip.

 _"Greg,"_ he gasps, arching. He lets his hips rock up in desperation. "Don't tease me."

Greg's hand lays on his stomach instead. He leans up to Mycroft and kisses him, still resisting the nudge of his hand to go lower once more.

"Darlin'?" he murmurs against Mycroft's mouth. Mycroft's heart heaves.

"Mm?"

"I - got you something. For your birthday."

Mycroft's pulse flickers out of rhythm for a moment. He catches Greg's fingers at last, guiding them hopefully downwards. "S-Something I'd rather like for my birthday here..."

The feel of Greg smiling against his lips is magnificent. "Mm? You'll... probably enjoy your presents, then..." His fingers brush Mycroft's cock then glide away, reaching down past the side of the mattress.

Mycroft watches, his breath a little tight, as Greg eases an unlabelled cardboard box from beneath the bed. It's been opened in advance, the parcel tape carefully cut.

"What...?"

Greg's eyes flash softly into his. "I... got us some new things. Things to play with."

Mycroft undergoes the immediate instinct to close his thighs. He says nothing, regarding Greg closely, and watches a look of reassurance arise on his lover's face.

"Nothing weird," Greg murmurs, kissing him again. Mycroft does not respond. "Just - easy things. Stuff that might feel nice."

Mycroft can't help but wonder what hideous contraption he's about to be presented with. He suddenly wishes Greg had emptied his bank account paying for a watch.

"Dare I ask for details?" he says. His lover leans down, opening the lid of the box.

The first item is a small bottle, bearing a black label with dark red swirls. _Warming Orgasm Gel._ As he reads it, Mycroft's right eyebrow arches two inches by its own volition.

"It's just like a lube," Greg says, kissing his forehead. "The reviews are really good... it's safe for sex. Just adds heat and feels nice."

Mycroft supposes it could be worse - but Gregory will definitely be trying it first. If someone is going to end up in A&E with chemical burns in unfortunate places, it shan't be him.

The box is rather larger than the bottle. There's more in there. "And?"

Greg reaches back through the lid.

A set of under-bed restraints - black cuffs lined with fake fur. Mycroft resists the immediate amused twist of his mouth. The packaging offers him a picture of a blonde young woman in lingerie, tethered to a very large white mattress and eyeing the beholder in a sultry fashion. Mycroft makes no comment. The thought of Greg tethered in such a way, pulling gently against the restraints, can wait until he knows what else the box contains.

Another lubricant - a startlingly stylish bottle with a sleek pump dispenser, an elegant script revealing the brand name _Indulge._ Mycroft tries not to note that the dispenser will be handy, and that the see-through bottle will give them forewarning for when their supply is running low. The squeeze tubes they've relied on until now are fiddly, and they come with the guaranteed misery of an enjoyable foreplay session being abruptly abandoned when the bloody things run out without warning.

The next item is prefaced with a careful glance.

Mycroft braces himself. He watches, warily, as Greg takes out perhaps the last thing he expected.

It's a plastic egg.

It's about the size of his lover's hand, white and decorated with faint bronze lines - like an easter egg, Mycroft thinks in concern, and worriedly passes his gaze across the label. _Easy Beat EGG: Silky. TENGA._

He's no more informed than he was before.

"What is that?" he manages. Greg bites his lip.

"They're from Japan," he says.

 _Christ alive._ "And what is it planning to do to me?"

"It's a stroker... they come in different kinds. Different patterns. This one's meant to be good for your first."

Mycroft can't imagine anywhere on his body a plastic egg the size of a fist is going to fit. "What in heaven's name is a 'stroker'?"

He watches with concern as Greg opens the thing. The two halves of its shell slide apart quite easily. Inside, there is what looks like a translucent white boiled egg - which transpires to be soft and made of some manner of stretchable material. It wobbles slightly as Greg turns it over.

It has a cavity with a sachet of lubricant tucked inside it.

"Greg..." Mycroft watches, lost, as his lover removes the sachet. "Gregory, what... _how_ is...?"

Greg smiles. "It stretches," he says, and demonstrates. The thing is startlingly elastic; it expands in his hands from a little over two inches to nearly twelve. "There's ridges inside... have a feel."

He offers it out.

_Dear god._

Wary, Mycroft takes the object from him. He's unsure whether the material intrigues or alarms him - a heady mix of both, he decides, as he tries not to grip it too tightly. The egg is soft and stretchy. With a guarded glance at Greg, he discreetly investigates its inside.

It's ribbed with a pattern - slender waves, spiralling smoothly around the internal cavity.

Mycroft's starting to gain some clue as to its use.

"And this is fucked, is it?" he says, wishing he could suppress the note of humour from his voice.

Greg grins. "Essentially. You can use it on your own, if you want. Or you can lie back and let me do it."

Mycroft's stomach squeezes a little. He doggedly ignores the sensation.

"Erotic stimulation," he clarifies, "from fucking a rubber egg."

"It's called a Tenga," Greg replies, still grinning. "And it's not a rubber egg. It's a stroker. It happens to fit in egg-shaped packaging."

Mycroft decides not to respond to that, looking down at the thing with uncertainty. He rubs his thumb quietly around the ridges on the inside. It can stretch fairly wide, he discovers, but retains its very snug grip even around his spread fingertips.

He imagines the pattern would be stimulating.

"What do you think?" Greg asks, tentatively.

Part of Mycroft is tempted to tell him to put the lot back in the box and return it, purely out of principle.

This feels... silly. _Sex aids._

A Japanese rubber egg he's meant to fuck.

"You realise this will be in your internet records in perpetuity now, don't you?" he says. He knows it's to avoid answering the question. "You're going to receive filthy emails for the rest of your days, Gregory. Entirely as you deserve."

Greg knows he's avoiding the question, too. Mycroft watches him reach some conclusion.

Greg's smile dims a little, but remains soft. He eases closer across the bed, puts an arm around Mycroft's waist, and kisses Mycroft's forehead gently.

"Keep the lube, maybe?" he says. "Maybe the warming gel, if you want... we can send the restraints back. We've opened the egg now, but - it's okay you don't want it, love. I'll save it until you're away for work."

He takes the thing from Mycroft's hands, moving it away to the bedside.

As it's taken off him, Mycroft experiences a strange tug in his stomach.

_Wait. Mine._

_I... want to..._

Greg's arms are wrapping around him; his lover's lips press against his cheek. Mycroft pulls his eyes away from the toy with reluctance.

"Did I screw up?" Greg says.

Mycroft's heart tightens at once.

"No," he says, turning to cup his lover's face. "No... of course you didn't. I'm just... unaccustomed to - "

Greg holds him close, stroking his back.

"Take you shopping tomorrow," he whispers. "Get you something proper. Sorry, darlin'. My stupid ideas." He kisses the side of Mycroft's neck. Mycroft's pulse thumps against his lips quick and soft, strangely distressed. "Shall we try the new lube, at least?"

His fingers brush Mycroft's cock, gathering around him in a gentle sweep - making him jump.

"Let me look after you," he says, and starts to stroke. Mycroft's breath catches. "Try and make it up to you."

Trembling - unsettled, and unsure why - Mycroft lets his lover lie him down.

The new lubricant feels like molten silk. It warms on Greg's hand at once, and as he strokes Mycroft slowly, murmuring to him, shifting on top of him and kissing at his neck, Mycroft's hips rock up through pure instinct into his grip. Three years now, and Greg knows his body. He knows that this steady patient sliding is all Mycroft needs - soft whispers of loving things in his ear, the ridges of Greg's fingers to push through, the weight of Greg's body on top of him.

As he feels Greg's fingers and fucks them slowly, Mycroft's pulse climbs with every caress.

He finds his thoughts straying.

Greg's mouth digs gently into his neck. A little breathless, Mycroft gazes at the bedside, one hand clasping his lover's shoulder.

The egg sits there, soft and white and unthreatening.

 _Simply material,_ Mycroft thinks.

Designed to feel good. To be used. Ridged inside. Hugging - squeezing. That sleek and clean packaging seems almost stylish; the pattern of the ridges might be found on modern wallpaper, slim rolling waves. A team somewhere have developed it thinking of men like him, imagining him in moments like this, a lover's mouth at his neck and a gentle hand around his cock, slicking him, and this is their solution to what might feel good for him right now.

His grips tightens on Greg's shoulder.

Mycroft shakes, shutting his eyes.

He reaches a nervous hand for the bedside.

Greg is perfect. He doesn't comment; he doesn't ask. He just takes the thing gently as he's handed it, and keeps kissing Mycroft's neck.

Having Greg on top of him helps. _Covering me,_ Mycroft thinks, his heart beating hard. _Hiding me. My lover._ Greg reaches for the new lubricant. Mycroft watches, breath held, as he fills the thing generously with the pump. He spreads a little around the rim - easy, calm - then leans up to kiss Mycroft.

"I love you," he whispers against Mycroft's mouth.

They kiss, and their tongues stroke - and as the soft rubber slips around the head of Mycroft's cock, he feels the opening grip him. It's tight, and he can't quite stifle a moan, panting a little as the toy takes him in.

Gently Greg eases it into place, guides him into it - then stretches the soft material along his cock, and begins to stroke.

Mycroft convulses with the feeling.

Greg moves slowly, steadily, letting him feel each ridge as it strokes. The pattern rubs against every inch of him, the material squeezing tight around his prick, whimpers wrenched from his mouth at once. Greg's rhythm is faultless. Mycroft can still feel the curl of his fingers. It's still his lover, still Greg, still the two of them. The ridges glide and rub and tease over his cock, perfectly slick, warm, tight, _good,_ and in only seconds he finds himself panting into Greg's mouth. His hips won't stay still. He wants to lift, to push, to chase. He wants to sob. His lover kisses him slower, works the material harder around his prick, and Mycroft shakes in desperation as he reaches down to feel it.

Greg slows, letting his trembling fingers touch.

The material is soft; it feels good, wrapped around him. _Oh, fuck. Mine. My toy._ His cock is so hard it takes his breath to feel himself this way. Greg's fingers are slippery and warm and they curl around his own, squeezing for a moment, comforting. Their mouths stroke.

Mycroft's heart is on the verge of rupture.

_Fuck... oh, fuck - I want -_

It's always been easier to show. Anxiously he takes his lover's hands, gathering them around his cock to hold the toy - _hold there, just there, please - please let me -_

Restlessly he pushes upwards, pressing through the stretch.

_Oh -_

_Ohh - fuck -_

The ridges drag as he pushes through them. Mycroft bites his lip and thrusts up again, harder, and then again, groaning in desperation as Greg's hands tighten for him.

"Nice, sweetheart?" Greg whispers. Mycroft almost passes out. He grips the sheets beneath his back and twists and pants, pushing himself upwards in rhythm, rutting, _fucking_ it, fucking Greg's hands and the toy and the feeling is indescribable. As he moans, flushing red across his face, his lover's breath roughens. Greg is aroused. He's aroused just watching this. "Fuck, you're beautiful, darlin'... you're so beautiful... oh Christ, gorgeous - that's it..."

_Oh fuck - I want to come - want to come, want to come - need to come -_

Greg starts to meet his upward thrusts with a downward stroke, smooth and easy, stretching the tight squeeze around his cock.

_Fuck, fucking my toy - ohhh - fuck -_

The pressure aches through Mycroft's groin, ready to break. He can't fight it. He doesn't want to wait. He wants to come, come underneath Greg, come panting and moaning and fucking himself dry through this feeling, this _feeling, this feeling, oh fuck, fuck - fuck - ohhh -_

The white-hot wave burns its way through his body. He can feel Greg moaning with him; he can hear his lover murmuring to him, soft and urgent: "Fuck, baby, that's it... _that's it..._ come for me, darlin'... come all over for me..."

When the feeling subsides, and Mycroft realises he's breathing again, he's a mess. He's molten. He's a pool across the bed, panting and flushed, wet with sweat and trembling as Greg eases him free from the toy. The sensation drags a moan from his throat. He feels as fragile as glass; he feels divine. His heart is hammering.

In his afterglow, his lover soothes him. Greg is, as ever, perfect. He strokes Mycroft's forehead, strokes his cheek, and kisses his gasping lips.

Before Greg can pull him close to cuddle, Mycroft stirs.

It takes almost all of his strength, but he nudges Greg over onto his back. He reaches at once for lubricant.

"We're keeping the restraints," he gasps, and seizes Greg's mouth in a fierce kiss. As he fills the egg with lubricant, concentrating, he feels Greg's body tremble underneath him. Their mouths part; Mycroft stretches the toy around his lover's cock. "Different patterns, you say?"

Greg stiffens and groans, gasping as the material squeezes him.

"There's - s-seventeen different ones," he pants.

"Mmh." Mycroft begins to work the soft material around his prick, hard and slow. Greg's cry of pleasure sears through his heart. "Excellent."

 

*

 

They're onto their third pint before either has the courage to bring it up.

"How was Mycroft's birthday?" John asks, as he passes Greg a packet of peanuts.

Greg tries not to smile.

"It was great," he says, casually. "Managed to get the whole weekend together... went out for dinner on Saturday night. Really nice place. Italian."

Tugging the peanuts open, he offers the packet to John.

"Thanks for the tip-off, by the way."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah." Greg glances at him. "It's a good site."

John's trying not to smile now. He hides it in his pint glass, drinking. "Isn't it."

Greg pours himself a handful of peanuts, as he summons up the balls to ask.

"D'you ever use those - Tenga things?" he says.

"The eggs?" John takes another slow drink, now eyeing him with restrained amusement. "Yep. Why?"

Greg bites into his cheek. "Went down pretty well."

John's eyes glitter. "Which one?" he says.

"I, ah... went for the one with the waves. Think it was called 'Silky'." Greg coughs. "We've got six more coming in the post."

John puts down his pint at once, rubbing the smile off his mouth. He looks away across the pub.

"What?" Greg asks him, fighting a grin, as a cheer goes up from the darts.

John looks back at him. Smirking, he says,

"That's Sherlock's favourite, too."

"Christ." Greg can't fight the grin any longer. It opens wide across his face. "Nice to know there's _something_ they share."

John's eyes light up. "Probably shouldn't tell them that."

"Yeah," says Greg. "Let's not."

 


End file.
